


i'm that bad type

by outofaith



Series: it's pointless to be high [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, BDSM, Based on a Billie Eilish Song, Borderline Personality Disorder, Bottom Zayn Malik, Dom/sub Undertones, Drugs, Inspired by Music, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Rich Liam, Rich Zayn Malik, Singer Zayn Malik, Socialite Liam, Substance Abuse, Top Liam, mentioned only - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 23:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20182504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outofaith/pseuds/outofaith
Summary: They have this thing going on. It's not healthy and it's not nice. But it's fun, at least it's supposed to be.





	i'm that bad type

Zayn Malik was, at the end of the day, an enigma. The tabloids liked to follow him around just to try and get a glimpse of the things that the singer got up to. Well, it didn’t worked very well, considering that all they managed to achieve was a few pics of him getting in and out of high end buildings, always clad on designer clothes and, more often than not, a leather jacket.

His chest always puffed, head held high and eyes smoldering. They liked to call him misterious and, after one too many fights on social media, a bad boy, like, a tough guy.

Following that, came his first album. Fascinating, it was what they called it. Really groundbreaking. Also, deeply sexual, almost trespassing the fine line of decorum. Not that he cared.

A few weeks after the release, he was papped during the late hours of the night getting out of a night club widely known for its heavy BDSM scene. So, no questions asked, kinky was added to the list of adjectives that the media used to describe Zayn Malik.

So, a tough guy. Liked it really rough, guy.

All in all, Zayn Malik was, more often than not, known for his obscure ways to have fun.

Then, there was Liam.

Liam Payne was an heir who had little to no time to waste doing things that didn’t bring him joy. He was not everyone favorite man, definetly not someone that people were eager to take home to mother. In his youth, on the years he spent attending private school, he was known for his depraved ways to get his way. Manipulation, some liked to call it.

The therapist his mother forced him to attend when he was seventeen and got caught kneeling between the loose legs of Mrs. Marks, one of the members of the Country Club they were part of, told his parents to never let him go more than two weeks without seeing her.

“He gets angry out of nowhere!” His mother told Dr. May. “The other day, I’m pretty sure that I saw cocaine on his bedroom.”

“He spends a lot of money, you see.” His father said. “Not that we can’t afford it, but why would he need such a big collection of watches?”

“Promiscuous, he is.” His mother nodded from his right side. “Sleeping around with the help. Not a fitting behavior for a member of the Payne family.”

So, that’s how Liam found himself being diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder at the tender age of eighteen.

Well, that didn’t mean he couldn’t have some fun.

They striked up a deal, then. He could do whatever the hell he felt like as long as he kept attending the social events, alongside them and his two older sisters. You see, the perfect happy family. If he kept his side of the agreement, there would always be money on his bank accounts and his thrust fund would never run dry. So, how was Liam supposed to argue with a proposition as sweet as that one?

So, he turned eighteen, moved out, got into college, bought the answers sheets for all of his exams and graduated with flying colors. His penthouse on the heart of Manhattan was always crowded, if not with guests for a party, then with naked bodies on the aftermath of one. His cabinets were filled with everything he could ever need in order to feel anything other than the quiet rage thrumming on his veins or the conflicting senses of grandeur and inferiority.

Molly, snow, crystal, blow, if you asked for it, he would smirk and nod.

The flat surfaces of his home were always crowded with bottles. Prosecco, tequila, gin, bottles and bottles of Jack and hundred dollar bottles of champagne.

Then there was his own personal shit, the one he never shared, unless he was feeling particularly generous and decided to pour it over the naked body of the whore that was sharing his bed for the night.

Macallan 18. That one was just for him.

It was during one of his infamous parties that he met Zayn.

Zayn, with his doe eyes and filthy smirk. Liam couldn’t be held responsible for the way he did everything in his power to seduce the dark haired man.

They started the night trading loaded looks and smirks that held promise. They ended it pouring entire bottles of champagne on the hot tub after everyone left, sharing thailandese cigarettes and snorting thin white line out of Zayn’s sharp collarbones. The dark ink on their bodies pretty and stark under the first rays of sunshine that danced over their skins.

Once Zayn was papped getting out of Liam Payne’s building on the early hours of the morning, dark bruises marring his neck and bloodshot eyes, it was like the world had imploded.

They were followed everywhere and, on the few occasions that they were attending the same party, there wasn’t a single camera that wasn’t pointed at them. Just trying to get one little glimpse of clothes being torn off.

It became a thing. Meeting at galas and after parties of musical and fashion events alike, events that Liam always found an invitation for. They would start as they always did, heavy looks and daring smirks. And they would end as always, too. Naked and panting, with red rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks from the drinks they shared and with bruises shaped like fingertips around necks and waists.

It was during the red carpet season, three and a half years after they first started this thing between them, that couldn’t possibly be healthy, that the tabloids finally got a glimpse of their favorite profligates.

The after party of the 2019 MET Gala was never going to be the same. They had ditched the lovely party and found themselves in a nice room with big mirrors and a balcony overflowing with expensive flowers. Not that it mattered, they were never the type to go around sweeping each other out of their feet.

So, it was like that, drunk on bourbon and high on snow that the mousy pap sneaking around, trying for his big break caught them. The misterious Zayn Malik bent over an expensive dark blue chaise, Liam’s hand wrapped tight around his neck that was decorated with a black leather collar.

The next morning, the controversial picture of Zayn bent over, clad only on his underwear, a Gucci shirt gaping open and a black collar, sipping prosecco while Liam was behind him, snorting blow from thin white lines neatly done on the small of his back was going to make the front page of the biggest papers all around the world.

They should be worried, they really should. But, as they laid side by side on the four poster bed on Liam’s big bedroom, Macallan spilling over on the egyptian sheets, cigarette smoke swirling up in the air and a needle being shared between them, they couldn’t care less.

They looked at each other, their phones going crazy somewhere on the other room, with their eyes as red as ever, they kissed, perhaps their own deranged ways led to something almost nice.


End file.
